Simulacra Of My Soul
© Surazeus
2017 11 09
Who can escape the hook of tangled roots
when lush Bougainvillea grasps my heart
and captures my face in the book of tales
that explains how Persea was the first flower?
How can we harness the wild flow of streams
with religious sluice of etiquette rules
so flowers burst through snow of aching sorrow,
providing apples for juice of true love?
Why are the luminous eyes of dead angels,
that burn from the pages of ancient books,
dreaming ruinous temples of new gods
designed by blind sages who program tales?
Who decides our fate in cathedral apse
while Earth at apogee of winter spins
till my perfect mate explains how I feel
about the refugee who reigns as queen?
When will the fool who dreams he still is king,
dancing at crepuscular hour of death,
realize the rule of streams from gushing spring
to hear the opening flower sing her name?
How fast will I evolve from man to god
when leaping past liminal rite of growth
across the weird threshold of death to solve
secret of eternal life through rebirth?
Can you see past this mask of my true face
that beams strange simulacra of my soul
while I perform the task of molding clay
in dancing idol with cameras for eyes?
I redesigned the world view in my head
to imitate the real world I perceive
by weaving dreams in tapestry of words
that memorialize people now long dead.
© Surazeus
2017 11 09
Who can escape the hook of tangled roots
when lush Bougainvillea grasps my heart
and captures my face in the book of tales
that explains how Persea was the first flower?
How can we harness the wild flow of streams
with religious sluice of etiquette rules
so flowers burst through snow of aching sorrow,
providing apples for juice of true love?
Why are the luminous eyes of dead angels,
that burn from the pages of ancient books,
dreaming ruinous temples of new gods
designed by blind sages who program tales?
Who decides our fate in cathedral apse
while Earth at apogee of winter spins
till my perfect mate explains how I feel
about the refugee who reigns as queen?
When will the fool who dreams he still is king,
dancing at crepuscular hour of death,
realize the rule of streams from gushing spring
to hear the opening flower sing her name?
How fast will I evolve from man to god
when leaping past liminal rite of growth
across the weird threshold of death to solve
secret of eternal life through rebirth?
Can you see past this mask of my true face
that beams strange simulacra of my soul
while I perform the task of molding clay
in dancing idol with cameras for eyes?
I redesigned the world view in my head
to imitate the real world I perceive
by weaving dreams in tapestry of words
that memorialize people now long dead.
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